The Grudge
by cactusnell
Summary: John just wants Sherlock to be happy, and he knows just what will make him happy. He thinks. But can John let go of an old grudge to allow it to happen? Sherlolly


Sherlock Holmes had been sleeping for just under two hours when he heard the footfalls on the stairs leading to his flat. No one had knocked at the front door on Baker Street or he would have been awakened by the loud complaints of his landlady, as it was after one o'clock in the morning. So the intruder had a key, or was a very good picker of locks. He found it hard to believe that a nefarious intruder, one who picked his lock, would make such little effort to ascend the stairs stealthily. So, someone with a key. Mycroft or John? The steps were unsteady, a bit stumbling, and since his elder brother had not been inebriated since his days at uni, and possibly not even then, that left his best friend, John Watson.

The detective left his warm bed, wrapping a sheet around him toga style, and went to open his door before the man could stumble into his sitting room in the dark. "John, what an unpleasant surprise! What brings you to Baker Street at this hour?"

The smaller doctor looked at his friend through slightly bloodshot eyes, before formulating his answer. "I've been drinking."

"Do tell, John." Sherlock opened the door a bit wider, allowing him entry. John staggered a bit over to his chair, and plopped himself down rather clumsily. "I've had a bit of a fight with Mary, and I went to the pub to cool off a bit, Sherlock."

"Has she shot you then?"

"No, of course not!"

"Couldn't have been much of a fight then."

"It wasn't, really. I just needed to spend a night at the local with the boys. But once I got there, all I really wanted to do was go home."

"And yet you're here."

"Yes, I am. And it is only because of my deep concern for you, and your welfare, Sherlock, that I am here." John made the pronouncement as if it made complete sense. At least to himself.

"Am I at some risk that I do not know about, John? Have you involved me in your argument with Mary, and is she now out gunning for me?"

"No, of course not. Mary would never hurt you!" He paused. "Again."

"I am gratified to hear that, John. But then what is your concern for my safety?"

"Not your safety. I never said safety, did I?" He was looking a bit confused. "It's your happiness that I'm concerned with, Sherlock!"

"Thank you so much, John, but I am well contented with my life. At least I was until a few moments ago, before I was awakened at an ungodly hour by an errant and inebriated husband!"

"Have I told you that I am a happy man, Sherlock. Because I am! Happy, happy, happy!" The doctor then rose unsteadily from his chair, and proceeded to do a little dance, incoherently singing about happiness being the truth, and a room without a roof, while Holmes smiled bemusedly.

"And I, John, am very happy to hear that you are happy. But what has that to do with your post midnight visit?"

"You're my best friend," John said, flopping back down in his chair, the lager in his system now threatening to turn into tears. "My best friend, and I want you to be happy, like me. And I'm happy because I have Mary, and little Claire. I have a home, and a family. People who love me without condition, or limit. When I go home I know they'll be there waiting for me, and…"

"Yes, John, I suppose they're waiting for you this very minute. Shall I get you a cab?"

"Don't interrupt me, you git. I'm trying to make a point!" John went from being tearfully maudlin to borderline angry.

"And that point would be?"

"You need a wife, Sherlock! A wife! Someone to come home to, someone to share your life with, someone to argue with without danger of having them hate you, someone to put up with you, someone to sanitize this cave you call home, to make sure you eat and sleep regularly, someone to take care of you, and for you to take care of in return. Someone to stock your pantry, and take care of the bills, and do your laundry. Someone to love you, and for you to love. And sex, Sherlock, don't forget about sex. It's bloody marvelous, I tell you!"

"Contrary to popular opinion, I am well aware of what sex feels like, John…"

"Then why are you constantly avoiding it?"

"I don't necessarily avoid it, John, I simply do not go out of my way to seek it out."

"Well, you should. I can tell you it's well worth the effort!" The doctor now had a contented smile on his face.

"I shall take your words under advisement, John. Now, shall I call you a cab?"

"I serious, damn it! I want you to be happy, Sherlock, like me! And, at this point in your life, you are in need of a wife!"

"John, you sound like you have been reading a bit of Jane Austen. But, just to go along with your premise, even if I did disagree, have you any specific candidate in mind? Has Mary sent you here as an undercover matchmaker, perhaps?"

"Candidates, huh? How about Janine? She was pretty."

"I have told you before, I only dated Janine for the sake of the Magnusen case. Nothing happened between us. Ever! And we did not part on the best of terms, although I assume that her hurt feelings were greatly assuaged by the significant amount of money she received by selling her fabrications to the yellow press."

"To bad Irene Adler's dead, then. You seemed interested in her for a bit. You certainly seemed to notice all her lovely parts when she appeared naked in her sitting room."

"It was her mind which fascinated me, Dr. Watson. Clever, observant, conniving. Like looking into a mirror, almost."

"Yes, if I saw her when I looked in a mirror, I might never look away!" John sighed as he remembered the woman. "Although, I can't imagine that you would be very happy tied to a bed, and being whipped, mate!"

"To each his own, John," Sherlock said, smiling enigmatically.

"There's always Mrs. Hudson," the doctor said with a smirk. "I understand that she can be a bit of a cougar."

"Really, John. show some respect! I care deeply for Martha Hudson, as you are well aware, but I will have no cougar pouncing on me, even if she ever did show the inclination. Mrs. H was a beautiful woman in her day, but her day was quite a few yesterdays ago."

"We're running out of female acquaintances here, Sherlock. How about Sally Donovan?"

"Don't even think about it, John!"

"I'd suggest my sister, Harry. She's available at the moment. But you're hardly her type, what with the whole penis thing, and all." It took the doctor a moment to come up with yet another suggestion. "Anthea?"

"Mycroft would have none of that, John. Take my word for it!" Sherlock sat back in his own chair, smiling a bit at the thought of his brother's reaction to his moving in his very personal assistant. It could have been almost worth it, he thought. "But, aren't you leaving out the most logical candidate, John?"

"And who would that be, mate?"

"Molly, of course!"

"Molly? Molly Hooper?"

"Of course Molly Hooper! How many other Mollies do we both know?" The detective spoke in a stern voice, with more than a touch of displeasure. And John now regretted bringing up this entire topic.

"Well, Sherlock, god knows she fancies you. Has for years. But I just can't see you and mousey Molly together." He barely noticed his friend's flinch at the slight directed at the pathologist. "I mean, she's smart enough, I suppose. And she can put up with your experiments. But she seems a bit fragile, don't you think? Not quite up to your standards."

"Not quite up to your standards, you mean. Molly is hardly fragile. She has put up with quite a bit, especially from me. But quite a bit from you, also. I know that you have never forgiven her completely for hiding the fact that I was alive for those two years I was away. You certainly can hold a grudge, even an unfounded one." Holmes steepled his fingers under his chin, gathering his thoughts. "I've always known that you are a better man than I, John. And I make no claim to understanding sentiment, or emotions, feelings, as well as you. But it has always struck me as odd that your wife shoots me, and I forgive her, while Molly keeps a secret, at my request, a secret which saved my life, and yours, as well as Lestrade's and Mrs. Hudson's, a secret that could have cost her her life, her position, and her freedom, and yet you treat her as some sort of social pariah. You've hurt her, John, over these past couple of years. I really can't preach, as I know that I have hurt her as well. But my actions have been unintentional. Can you say the same?"

"But, Sherlock, she could have given me a hint…"

"Enough! We've discussed this before. You and I both know that that was impossible, given the circumstances. It was not that I trusted her more than I trusted you. The simple fact was that she was not on Moriarty's radar. She could go unnoticed, you could not. You want me to be happy, John? Make it up to Dr. Hooper. I've known Molly longer than I've known you. And she will continue to be in my life, even if you choose to ignore her, and distance yourself from her. Are you sober enough to understand that? Are you ready to move on, to get over it?"

The doctor sitting across from the detective seemed to sober up a bit at his words. He blinked a few times, possibly blinking back tears. John Watson was, indeed, a good man. Certainly good enough to know that his attitude toward the pathologist had been uncalled for. She was a kind and generous woman who risked quite a bit for three people who understood and accepted her sacrifice, and for one ungrateful man who had been blinded by resentment and, a bit of jealousy. When he finally spoke, it was in a clearer voice. "Yeah, mate. If that will make you happy, I'm ready to get over it. I just hope she'll forgive me…"

"She'll forgive you, John. That's what she does. Look at all the times she's forgiven me! And I'm sure I deserved it far less than you on occasion."

"Truth be told, I've missed having Molly in my life. I'll talk to Mary. We'll invite her to Sunday dinner. You're still coming, right?"

"Aren't I there every Sunday to see my godchild? But John, will you remember this conversation in the morning?"

"I'm sure I will, you've made quite an impact. But maybe you could remind me, just to be sure, okay?" Whatever he had imbibed that evening was beginning to wear off, and he stifled a yawn.

"Time to get you a cab, I see." Sherlock rose from his chair, still wrapped in his sheet. After helping John to his feet, he walked to the coatrack, allowed the sheet to drop, and put his Belstaff on over his naked body. He then helped John shuffle to the door and down the stairs. John had sobered up enough to realize the irregularity of the situation, and wondered aloud how a drunk and a naked man in a long coat were going to find a cab at this hour of the morning. To his surprise, one pulled up at the door almost immediately. As Sherlock guided him into the back seat, and gave money and instructions to the driver, John muttered to himself, "Gotta be the magic coat!"

Sherlock quickly went back inside, grabbed his mobile and sent a text off to Mary Watson.

AM SENDING YOUR APOLOGETIC AND DRUNK HUSBAND HOME IN A CAB. AS I AM QUITE FOND OF THE MAN I WOULD ASK THAT YOU PLEASE REFRAIN FROM SHOOTING HIM. - SHERLOCK

AS I AM ALSO QUITE FOND OF HIM, I WILL MAKE IT A SIMPLE FLESH WOUND. - MARY

The detective made an appreciative grunt at the black humor as he climbed back into his bed.

"Sherlock! Bloody hell, why are your feet so cold?"

"I was outside putting a drunken John Watson into a cab, Molly. I didn't want to wake you. Go back to sleep."

"John was here? What did he want at this hour of the night?"

"He had a bit of a fight with Mary, and proceeded to get blotto at the pub. Rather than go home in that state, he decided to come over here and straighten out my life. He wants me to be happy, Molly. He informed me that I need to find a wife, so that I can be as happy as he is. Do you know of anyone who might be interested?"

"That depends. What does the job entail?"

"All the usual. Someone to organize my life, care for me, make sure I eat and sleep, etc. And sex, of course. He was particularly adamant about the sex part. He seemed to think I would enjoy it immensely."

"Well, he certainly got that part right!" Molly said with a mischievous grin, as he moved to take her into his arms and nuzzle her neck.

"He even had some suggestions as to prospective brides," he said teasingly.

Molly couldn't keep the hurt from her voice as she said, "I don't suppose I made the shortlist, did I, Sherlock?"

"You're the only one on my list, and you know it, Dr. Hooper. And John has seemingly recognized the error of his ways. We're having dinner with the Watsons on Sunday."

"Are you going to tell him? About us, I mean." Once again she was feeling a bit sad, when this should have been the happiest moment of her life. "He may not be happy about it."

"I suppose I'll have to. He's bound to be curious about the bride when I ask him to be my best man. And he has assured me that he desperately wants me to be as happy as he is. Unless you're going to turn me down?"

"When have I ever refused you anything, my love? But are you sure? You want to marry me?"

The detective answered her question not with words, but with a kiss that was passionate and sweet at the same time. "And don't start second guessing my motives. It's not because of John's suggestion. I've had my grandmother's ring in my coat pocket for a month now, waiting for the right moment. Is this the right moment?"

"Definitely," Molly said, drawing him closer for yet another kiss.

"But I should thank John for giving me the courage to propose tonight. Perhaps we should name our first son after him?"

"That's a lovely thought, love, but perhaps John and Mary are planning to name a son of theirs 'John'. How about using his middle name?"

"Hamish?"

Sherlock couldn't help but smile at the look of distaste on Molly's face. "Well, let's not worry about that now, Sherlock. Maybe we'll have all girls!" She said as they went back to work on the first of their brood.


End file.
